The more a mind takes in the more it expands.

One of those hot in the sun, cold in the shade type mornings. This 'can't make up its mind' weather is usually a sign that a thunderstorm is going to roil down from the mountains. The PONs wait more or less patiently while Angus decides whether or not to wear a jumper over his shirt.

An early PONburst of energy. Collar doves chased, the garden checked for c-a-t-s : the word that must never be spoken aloud. We turn right out of the far gate. Sophie watches the donkeys, gives the goats a cursory glance to make sure they're behaving and is nearly scared out of her skin by three horses that wander over to the fence to see her. She and her brother have been busy exploring something malodorous in the drainage ditch and haven't seen them walking towards them. Bob sensibly comes and stands behind my legs and glares at them. Sophie scampers round and takes up a back stop position behind him. Her 'Don't worry about a thing Bob. I'm here ' position.

In the PONs defence I would say that from down at lane level the three young horses high on the bank must look quite intimidating.

The horses trot amiably alongside us as we turn and head for home. Sophie waits until we've got back to The Rickety Old Farmhouses gate, then stops, turns and emits one shrill bark. The horses have been told in no uncertain terms who controls this village. She then sprints into the house and makes a beeline for the kitchen.

Here's a poem by the 'Twitter' poet Brian Bilston for this Sunday morning. Who'd have thought Twitter would become an art form ?

AS I GROW OLD I WILL MARCH NOT SHUFFLE

As I grow old
I will not shuffle to the beat
of self-interest
and make that slow retreat
​​​to the right.

I will be a septuagenarian insurrectionist
marching with the kids. I shall sing
‘La Marseillaise’, whilst brandishing
homemade placards that proclaim
‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING’.

I will be an octogenarian obstructionist,
and build unscalable barricades
from bottles of flat lemonade,
tartan blankets and chicken wire.
I will hurl prejudice upon the brazier’s fire.

I will be a nonagenarian nonconformist,
armed with a ballpoint pen
and a hand that shakes with rage not age
at politicians’ latest crimes,
in strongly-worded letters to The Times.

I will be a centenarian centurion
and allow injustice no admittance.
I will stage longstanding sit-ins.
My mobility scooter and I
will move for no-one.

And when I die
I will be the scattered ashes
that attach themselves to the lashes
and blind the eyes
of racists and fascists.